As he threw the empty packet into the trash, I saw his face change, grow very cold. There was fear in it too. "Come on," he said, and moved toward the subway entrance.
I caught up easily. "What's wrong?" I asked.
"Saw a man we don't wanta meet."
The name came to me quickly. "Enoch?"
"No, ain't Enoch. Montcalm."
We were going down the stairs by now, and I took the token Rags handed me. "Montcalm? Who's that?"
"TA cop."
"Just a cop?"
"Not just a cop. Montcalm knows me. Hates me. He's the one cop'd bust my ass sure."
"Why?
"I know what he is."
CHAPTER 5
Bob Montcalm sucked in a bolt of smoke and blew it out again immediately. It had been the rag man, he was sure of it. Nobody dressed like that for fun. New York was fucked up all right, but wearing layers of rags hadn't become the newest fashion trend. Not yet anyway, he thought bitterly, watching the staircase where the black man had disappeared. Who had it been in the Oz books he'd read when he was a kid, the ones in his grandfather's apartment? That had been a rag man too, hadn't it?
No. The Raggedy Man, that was it. Montcalm bet nobody in Oz smelled like his rag man did. He would have gone after the old fart if he hadn't more important things to do.
Montcalm looked at the clock on the call-board and checked it against his watch. 2:38 P.M. Rodriguez had said 2:30, but Rodriguez was always late. Finally Montcalm spotted him, coming out of the newsstand with a Post tucked beneath his arm. Calmly, leisurely, the Latino walked through the crowded concourse, looking neither right nor left, and headed toward the men's room on the lower level. Montcalm followed.
The restroom was nearly empty, but it didn't matter. When Montcalm entered, Rodriguez was already in one of the booths. Montcalm crouched and saw the angled points of the alligator shoes beneath the dirty metal door. Taking a comb from his pocket, Montcalm ran it through his thinning hair and studied his face in the mirror. It was not a handsome face. The eyes were deep set, and the shape of the nose revealed that it had been broken at least once. The chin was gray despite frequent shaving, and the lower lip hung pendulously, giving a sleepy, war-weary look.
Bob Montcalm was war-weary all right, but the impression of sleepiness was false. He was as alert to what was happening around him as any New York cop with twenty-five years of service, transit or street, and more alert than most. It was that alertness, that sense of being always on edge, that had brought him his first arrests, his first big successes, and to the attention of his superiors; had brought him to his own supervisory position. It had also brought him to people like Rodriguez. And Gina.
The toilet flushed, and Montcalm slid the comb back into his pocket and started to wash his hands. The booth door opened and Rodriguez appeared, glanced at Montcalm, and gave a short, nearly undetectable nod. Rodriguez washed his hands three sinks down from where Montcalm was standing, and walked out the door. Montcalm remained at the mirror a moment longer, looking at his own face with the expression of a vain man who has found one more gray hair. Then he turned and stepped into the booth Rodriguez had vacated.
The packet was where it was supposed to be, right behind the toilet bowl. Montcalm locked the booth door, sat on the seat, and opened the packet. He counted the bills, then put them into his inside coat pocket. The heroin was next. He opened one of the two Ziploc bags, touched his finger to the white powder, and tasted it. He spat the residue between his legs into the bowl, resealed the bag, put both of them into the outer pockets of his sport coat, made sure the pocket flaps were down, then buttoned his trench coat around him.
Leaving the rest room, he walked a circuitous route to a section of the terminal with lockers, waited until no one was in sight, then opened one of them. Inside was a locked briefcase. This he opened, and into it he put the currency he had received from Rodriguez. He fed the locker more coins, and closed the door tightly.
He took the Seventh Avenue—Broadway IRT to the 103rd Street station, and walked the two blocks to the apartment house where Gina lived. He walked with his hands in his pockets, without fear, knowing that his service revolver could deal with any spindly junkie desperate enough to try and mug him. The street seemed quiet, though, and by the time he got to the door he felt as relaxed as he could possibly expect to feel. She would be glad to see him, he knew. Why wouldn't she? He had what she wanted. He had always given her what she wanted.
He had to push the button four times before the buzzer sounded at the lock. While he waited, he saw that two of the lobby mailboxes had been wrenched open and emptied, and thought that he should try to find Gina another apartment in a better building. The filth was moving south from above 110th Street. He hoped he could get her out before it was too late, get her out of it all.
The elevator was out of order again, so he trudged up the stairs to the fifth floor, where her door was ajar. Her thin hand hung on the frame like some white, sickly spider, and as she drew the door open for him, he was shocked anew at the hollowness of her face.
"Hi," he said, and kissed her cheek before she could draw away. She was wearing a worn, yellow bathrobe with bra and panties beneath, and she tugged the cord tighter, hiding her body from him. "Not glad to see me?"
"Sure. Sure I am." Her voice was outwardly calm, but underneath Montcalm could sense her relief, could tell how close she'd been to panic.
"You were pretty slow letting me in."
"I was sleeping."
Sure, Montcalm thought. And then you spent three minutes finding the buzzer.
"You bring it?"
"Yep." He took the packets from his pocket and set them on the battered coffee table. Gina snatched one up and opened it. "I got to, uh… I got to now."
Montcalm nodded. "Go ahead." She vanished into the kitchen, and Montcalm watched her go, still loving her, still wanting her. He looked around the room and grimaced. It was filthy. Piles of clothing lay here and there. An ironing board set up in the corner was gray with dust. Empty cans of Diet Coke sat everywhere, their silver tops dimmed with cigarette ash.
His head felt light, and he lowered it so that his chin touched his chest, and closed his eyes, trying to imagine how it never was, but might have been between them, if only they could have gotten away, out of New York, far from her old friends on 105th Street. She'd been beautiful the day he'd first met her, down there in the subway. There had been something in her face and voice that touched him, that let him see beneath the street-hardness she wore like a shield, something that had made her different. He could have busted her for possession. He had her dead to rights, had walked in the car just as she was about to snort a line. Anyone else, anyone, he would have busted in a second.
But instead he had showed her his shield, sat beside her, and spoke to her softly. "I won't bust you. Two conditions."
Her face had narrowed ferally. "What?"
"Toss the shit out the window. And let me buy you lunch."
She had given him a lopsided smile of mistrust, but lowered her window and let the white powder fly away.
"Now your evidence is gone. So why should I have lunch with you?"
"Because I'll buy you a good one, and because you'll really like me when you get to know me, and because if you don't I'll bust you anyway for solicitation."
She'd looked at him, unsure if she should take him seriously. Then she saw the laughter in his eyes, and laughed herself. "Don't know why, but all of a sudden I'm awful hungry."
He had fallen in love with her immediately, for reasons that he was never able to define, reasons having nothing to do with rationality, no definite plans as to how or why she would fit into his life. It had been enough that, after having been alone for twenty years, here she was, and it felt right, and he loved her and she loved him. Her background meant nothing to him, as his had been nothing to be proud of. Once she knew how he felt about drugs, she no longer spoke of her old acquaintances, no longer offered him joints or smoke
d them in front of him. He knew she smoked grass when he was not with her, but thought that when they got married she would give it up.
Marriage, however, had not ended her drug use. The only thing it did end was their relationship. She felt caged, she said, and the more she protested the more he did, perversely and inexplicably, to cage her. He knew, even as he did it, that it was the wrong course to take, and afterward he thought that he helped create a self-fulfilling prophecy. As much as he loved her and wanted to be happy with her, there was that part of him bred by the rough realities of the city that could not believe the fairy tale would come true. Had he been younger or she older, his expectations might have been greater, or hers less, so that the two sets might have merged into the fragile equilibrium on which most marriages survive and many flourish. As it was, they clashed incessantly, all the joy left behind in the days before they entered City Hall for their license.
Her friends began to reappear, as did the grass and the cocaine, and it wasn't long before he suspected her of sliding needles beneath her skin. When he learned that it was true, he was heartbroken, choked with guilt that his possessiveness had driven her to it. He still loved her, still saw those qualities that had initially drawn him to her, but before he was aware of it, she had become a junkie, her household expense money going for her more and more frequent doses.
When he stopped deluding himself and confronted her with what she was, there had been a scene. The next day when he came home, she was gone, her clothes with her. He wept most of the evening. Two days later, she called him. She was alone, couldn't find her friends anywhere, and needed junk.
Up to that time, Bob Montcalm had been an honest cop. There were addicts among his network of informants, but he had never tried to trade dope for information—it had been cash only. But this was different, he told himself. He had to get it. Just once. Just this once for Gina. And then, later, he could decide what to do. He wouldn't take her in, that much he knew. The thought of her screaming, strapped to a ward bed, was more than he could bear. The scandal of it all, of her being a cop's wife, had, to his credit, never occurred to him.
He found Willie at the 50th Street station, and pressed five twenties into his hand. "Get me horse," he said. "And get it fast."
Willie looked at the bills like he would a snake. "Jesus, Sergeant, whatta you . . . I can't do that . . ."
"You do it, you little fuck. You do it now, or I'll have you locked in a detox ward so fast you won't have time to puke. One hour."
Willie turned white, and scurried up to the street. In forty-five minutes he was back, holding a small bag of potato chips which he handed to Montcalm. "In there," he said nervously. "And change too."
Montcalm had pressed the bag, snapping the chips inside until his fingers felt a padded roundness that did not break. "Good. Forget about this, Willie. Just forget all about it."
"You bet, Sergeant."
He'd gone to the address Gina had given him, the one on 103rd Street where he now sat. It had been the first time he'd seen her need a fix, and it wasn't pretty. She had injected right in front of him, and he had watched closely, unable to look away, finally amazed at the way she became, in a few short minutes, another person, relaxed, lighthearted, almost affectionate once more.
It was the same way she came back into the room now, her hair combed, her face smiling at him, her robe rearranged, so that it gaped in the front with an air of casual yet calculated sexuality. She came to the couch, leaned over, and kissed him, warmly but close-mouthed, on the lips. "You're a good man, Bobby boy," she whispered.
"Yeah," he grunted, sounding more gruff than he felt.
"Want a drink?"
"Sure."
She went into the kitchen and came back with a rocks glass half full of bourbon. He took a large swallow as she sat beside him, and rested her head on his shoulder so that her dark hair touched his cheek. It smelled of stale perfume, wilted roses. "You are good to me, Bob."
"Sure," he repeated, wishing that he was either not there or could be there with her always. They sat like that for a long time, not moving, until at last he took another swallow of his drink. "How's the money?"
"I could use a little more. If you can spare it."
"How much?"
"Two . . . three hundred?"
"All right." He edged away from her, took out his wallet, and handed her fifteen twenties. "You've got to eat more. You look thin."
She squeezed his fingers as she took the bills. "You're cute. You worry about me too much."
"You're still my wife. I love you, Gina."
Her expression changed subtly. Sadness and a trace of panic touched her eyes, and she shook her head. "You're crazy."
"Yeah. You're lucky I am."
"You know you can have a divorce."
"I don't want it. I want you."
"We've been through this—"
"I know, every time I come. Every time I bring you this . . . this shit." She stood up and started to cross the room, but he followed her and stopped her, his hands on her shoulders pulling her back against him, her hair in his face so that he spoke through it, as through some dark, fine web. "I can help you. Nobody else, just me. I swear there'd have to be nobody else, just you and me, Gina. Together we could do it. It could be like it was before, I know it could, but you got to trust me. You're gonna wind up dead, you keep this up. Jesus, it's been almost a year, a year, Gina."
She trembled, and started to move away from him, then gave up. "I know of …" she said breathily, “… of lots of people been on it for . . . for years—"
"But not you . . ."
“. . . and they're fine . . . there's nothing wrong with them, just that —"
"Just that they're junkies!" He swung her around and held her chin so that she had to look at him. "Goddam zombie junkies, Gina! And it's only because I've taken care of you that you're not like them. You want that? You want to be like them?"
"No…"
"What would you do? What would you do if it weren't for me?"
"I . . . don't know."
"Goddam right you don't know. I get you your junk, I get you your money . . . what the hell would you do . . ."
He trailed off impotently, and sank back down on the couch. Gina remained standing, her back to him. "Maybe . . . maybe I'd trick."
Shaking with sudden rage, he looked up at her. "Don't say that. Don't even think it. I ever hear you say anything like that again, that's the end of it, Gina. Just get that out of your head right now."
"I'm sorry, Bob. I won't. I didn't mean it." She sat beside him. "Would you. . . do you want to make it with me?"
He wanted to. But pride held him back, pride and the overwhelming feeling that he must not love her until she was free again, and, contradictorily, his again. The time would come. He would make it come. "No. Not now."
"You never want to."
"Do you? Honestly?"
She shook her head. "I just never feel like it."
"You got a lover, Gina. Smack's your lover. It's all you need, isn't it?"
He didn't expect her to answer, and she didn't.
"I'm going," he said, standing up and moving to the door, trying to remember what it had been like the last time they'd made love, a year ago, the last time he'd made love to any woman.
"Bob?" Her voice stopped him at the door. "You'll come back?" She sounded like a little girl, alone and afraid.
"What do you think?"
"Yes."
"I'll come back. Someday I'll come back and take you out of here."
He closed the door so he wouldn't have to say any more, and went down the stairs thinking of his dream, the dream of having enough money to take Gina away from the city, far out into the country, maybe northeastern Pennsylvania, where his mother and father had taken him on vacation when he was young. He would buy a house high up on some mountain, with no one else around, and he would take Gina there, and he would help her to stop, and hold her when she wanted to scream, and quiet her and take
care of her until she was herself again, the real Gina he had loved, and she would love him again, and it would be all right. They would be away and safe. They would escape.
The dream had haunted him ever since he had realized the depth of Gina's addiction. He knew it could come true—but not on his salary alone. The trick was to find a way to keep Gina supplied with drugs while building up enough cash to move from the city. He could not take another job, so the only alternative was to develop a second source of income from his present one.
Bob Montcalm, although he had never been a crooked cop, knew that they existed, and felt sure that a few of his colleagues on the transit police force were not above picking up a little extra cash when it could be done with minimal risk. Through Willie, who finally became convinced of his sincerity, Montcalm contacted Rodriguez, and made a deal. For certain considerations that Montcalm made on the tracks and stations within his jurisdiction, he was to receive small amounts of heroin and larger amounts of cash. These considerations included informing Rodriguez as to which stations were under surveillance by narcotics agents, the establishment of "safe" stations and trains where exchanges could be made without fear of arrest, and anything else Montcalm could do to make life easier for Rodriguez. Montcalm never tried to find out who was behind Rodriguez, nor did he wish to know. It was enough that once every two weeks he collected the cash and Gina's heroin. Montcalm insisted that he receive the material outside of the subway lines. Too many people knew him below, police and criminals alike.
So twice a month Montcalm made his deliveries to Gina, and twice a month he tucked away cash in a locker at Penn Station, fifty yards away from the locker in which Jesse Gordon kept his money. There was already fourteen thousand in Montcalm's locker. He felt uneasy about keeping so much money in a public place, but he felt more uneasy about keeping it in a bank or his apartment, where it could be traced in an investigation. When there was enough, then he would take Gina away. They would leave the city behind, and he would never see Rodriguez, or a subway station, or a packet of heroin again.
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